by Scott Turow
I was not sure he would even bother to respond, but he did late the next day, although just to say good-bye.
Anna-
I think I have to stop this cold. Like not hang out or communicate or anything. There's something about the way we've clicked that seems to me to lead only one place. And I'm actually walking around moping and heartbroken. And then going home to reread your emails. Which, to say the least, is a dangerous cycle.
You have not said a word yet that really makes me understand it. Age? Working for my father? Your own breakup? We could blow through those issues in no time. But the one word I do understand is no. You have your reasons. But I realize I'm just going to make myself crazier by keeping this up.
I think you are completely great.
I didn't answer. There was no more to say. But he sent another message that night.
Anna-
I have just reread your last message and I finally got it. I mean I'm stoned, so I know this won't make any sense in the morning. But right now, I need to ask you a question about my father that is so far out and so Soap Opera you're going to be sure I am totally wigged-out.
I've been thinking about the fact you thought it would be strange to hang with me because of my dad. And the way you got silent about him maybe having an affair. And that stuff about your mom stepping out. So here's the question.
Are you my sister? Or my half-sister? I know this only makes sense because I am completely toasted. But still. So if you don't mind answering one more email, that would be great.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, 8/7/08 12:38 am
Subject: Re: My Heart
Oh Nat. I'm laughing and also crying a little. I would even like to answer yes bc it would finally put your mind at ease. And I think it's a pretty brilliant sideways guess. But the answer to your question is no. No.
You are right. This shouldn't continue. I think you are beyond great. You are perfect. But let me tell you what I tell myself. If we could connect like this, then it can happen somewhere else. Too often I've wanted the dynamos, the Somebodys I'd like to be, instead of a guy who will make me feel good enough to be that Somebody myself. So you've given me a wonderful gift, and I will never be able to thank you enough. Your Loving friend, Anna
CHAPTER 14
Tommy, October 29, 2008
I know you got something," Tommy Molto told Brand when he met him outside the Central Branch Courthouse. Jim was on trial, dressed in a nifty glen plaid, a better suit than any prosecutor really could afford. Molto sometimes told Brand that he must have secretly been born Italian. The case he was trying was a triple murder in which one of the victims was the niece of the movie star Wanda Pike. Gorgeous and mournful, Wanda was in court along with her posse every day. Knowing that would occur, Brand had decided to keep the case rather than letting somebody more junior from the Homicide Division handle it. Jimmy had never been confused about the fact he liked seeing himself on TV. The trial was on lunch recess, and Brand had come outside to meet the boss. He was going to be cold. It was a brisk day with a sabering wind and scuffy, ugly clouds.
"How's that?" asked Brand.
"How's what?"
"How you know I got something?"
"Because you wouldn't haul my ass out across the street, or take time for lunch meetings in the middle of trial, unless you did."
"Maybe I think you need exercise. Maybe I like to see you busting down the street like a pigeon." Brand actually thrust out his belly and walked a few steps in imitation. Jimmy was way too cheerful. This was going to be good. Tommy gestured him inside, but they were waiting for Rory Gissling, who came along in a minute bundled in a heavy coat and bright scarf. She had a manila envelope under her arm.
They reentered the courthouse and went upstairs to find someplace to talk. Judge Wallach's courtroom was open, and they huddled together on the corner of one of the plush benches, Rory between the two prosecutors.
"Show him," Brand told her.
"So we subpoenaed Barbara's pharmacy for all the receipts, refills, all the records in the month before she died," Rory said. She took a quarter inch of paper out of her envelope.
"Show him the receipt for the phenelzine," said Brand.
Rory thumbed through the pages, then handed a copy of a charge slip to the PA. Paying for the purchase of the phenelzine, it was dated September 25, last month, and plainly showed Rusty Sabich's signature. Brand was grinning like a kid at Christmas.
"You mind?" Tommy said, and took the rest of the papers from Rory. He flipped through the stack. "Rusty picks up all the prescriptions," he said. "That's what it looks like."
"Eighty, ninety percent," Rory answered.
"So?" Tommy asked.
"He picked up the phenelzine," Brand said.
"So?" Tommy asked again.
"Show him the stuff for the day before she died," said Brand.
Rory pulled several sheets from the ones in Tommy's hand. Rusty had signed the charge slip for the purchase on a renewal of Barbara's sleeping pills on September 28.
"I thought we were looking at a phenelzine overdose," Molto said.
"Look at the dupe of the register tape," said Brand. "The back page there. It's the other stuff he bought you need to see."
Tommy took a second to decode the abbreviations, but the tape appeared to reflect a bottle of Rioja, pickled herring, Genoa salami, and some aged cheddar, as well as a quart of plain yogurt. The PA needed a little more time before it clicked.
"That stuff all reacts with the drug, right?" he asked. "It's got whoesy whatsit in it, all of it?"
"Tyramine. All of it." Brand bobbed his head. "He literally bought the entire no-no food group. Could turn a normal dose of phenelzine lethal. And a quadruple dose into a sure thing. I'd say the judge was preparing a different kind of Last Supper."
Tommy looked at the slip again. The time of purchase was 5:32 p.m.
"They're having cocktails," he said.
"What?" Brand slid over. "Where do you get that from?"
"He went to the store at dinnertime. He bought a bottle of wine and some appetizers. They're having cocktails, Jim."
"Yogurt?" asked Brand.
"For the dip," Tommy said.
"Dip?" asked Brand.
"Yeah, if you're being healthy, you use yogurt instead of sour cream. And speaking of dips," said Tommy to Brand, "with your dad's history, you oughta know stuff like that. You ever hear of cholesterol?" Tommy spelled it for him, and Brand waved him off. Rory added some sage words about her dad, who'd just had a bypass. Brand ignored them and stuck to the case.
"We got him, don't we?" he asked. "It's right there, isn't it?"
Tommy could feel the weight as his chief deputy and the detective watched him. Brand had been sold for a long time, but that wasn't the point. The call on this case was going to be Tommy's entirely. The risks were all on his tab, and he was the one who had to be satisfied. And when he added it up, he still wasn't. Rusty's grocery list looked pretty damning, but they were still trying to make a lot out of stuff a defense lawyer would call coincidental.
"We're closer," Tommy said quietly.
"Boss!" Brand protested. He began to go through all the evidence, and Tommy had to warn him to keep his voice down. The last thing they needed was a reporter walking into the courtroom and overhearing all this.
"Jimmy, you two have tumbled to some amazing stuff. But it's all circumstantial. You don't need me to tell you the way somebody like Sandy Stern will pick this case apart. 'Who has not gone to the store to pick up groceries, a prescription, ladies and gentlemen?'" Tommy did a better imitation than he expected of Stern's mild accent. "You've seen Stern sell snake oil. And the biggest problem is never going away. Our own expert will get up on the witness stand and admit on cross-examination she has no way to exclude sixteen other causes of death besides murder. It's light. The case is too light. We need something else."
"Where the fuck
do I get something else?" Brand demanded. That was the point, of course. "How about the DNA?" he asked after a second.
Tommy had been thinking a lot about that lately, when he was up with Tomaso in the middle of the night, and he'd realized the DNA was not the answer. But he didn't want to get into that in front of Rory and simply said what he'd been saying for weeks: "Not yet."
Brand looked at his watch. He had to get back to court. He stood up and backpedaled as he headed out.
"I'm not giving up, Boss."
Tommy laughed out loud. "I wasn't worried about that."
CHAPTER 15
Anna, September 2, 2008
After my marriage ended and I moved in with Dede, the same question obsessed me. I would lie in bed in the mornings and wonder for an hour, Was I ever in love with Paul? I thought I had been, but now I had my doubts. Yet how could I, or anybody, ever make such a fundamental mistake? How would I ever know the real deal?
Man by man, relationship by relationship, those issues have perplexed me and left me feeling each time that something was missing. I have been fascinated by some men and in other cases-none more than Rusty-virtually obsessed, gripped by a fierce hunger. But could anything so fraught be grown-up lasting love? Could it have led to that? I have awaited the Day I Know I Am Really in Love the way some people anticipate the Rapture.
I was gloomy the first weeks of August and was reluctant initially to believe it had anything to do with Nat. In time, I faced the fact that I missed him or, more honestly, the chance I'd seen in him, an opportunity to have something different, which felt both new and right. This realization hit me harder than I might have anticipated. It brought up a lot of stuff about Rusty, which I didn't expect, especially anger. Late at night, there were moments when I couldn't understand my own reasoning. What taboo was I violating, whose feelings was I trying to spare? If the father didn't want me, why couldn't I be with the son? Wouldn't that mean things had worked out for everyone? When I reconsidered all of this in the morning, it felt as though all the ground I'd gained in the last fifteen months had washed away beneath my feet.
But I thought I was getting over it. It felt as though I had put this disappointment on the shelf beside many prior ones. And then this morning, I was in the supreme court hearing room to assist Miles Kritzler, who was arguing a futile mandamus petition for an important client. He got oral argument by rule, but the justices were not happy he was taking their time, and they sat up there, all seven of them, with these looks that said, Just kill me. His red light was going to come on any second, and just then somebody scampered up onto the bench to deliver a brief to Justice Guinari, and when I looked over, Nat was already facing me, so thin and haunted and impossibly beautiful, those sea blue eyes full of an amazing beseeching look. I was afraid the poor man was going to start weeping and that if he did, I would cry, too.
When I got back to the office, there was a message from him in my voice mail:
"When I leave work around six, I'm going straight to your apartment. I'm going to ring the bell, and if you're not home, then I'm going to sit on the front step until you come home. So if you've gotten a grip again and still don't want this, then you better go sleep at one of your girlfriends, because I'm going to be sitting there all night. You're going to have to tell me no to my face this time. And unless I understand you a lot less than I think I do, I don't think that will happen."
I knew then that for all the hesitation and reluctance, all the telling myself, 'No, this is insane,' all the warnings of incredible peril, that despite all of that, my heart had a plan and I was going to have to follow it. As the songs say, I would give everything for love. This is a greater, deeper truth about me than any of the admonitions and lessons I have been trying so hard to take in. And I have always known it.
In the last few months I lived with Dede, I was dating a cop named Lance Corley, who had been a student in an econ class I took at night to finish college. He was a sweet man, big and handsome, and when he came by he spent a lot of time with Jessie. He had a daughter of his own he didn't see much. I could tell that Dede had a crush on him almost from the start and that it was only getting worse as time went on. She was completely transparent. She'd ask me several times a day when I thought he might show up. In the end, Lance decided he was going to try to reconcile with his ex, mostly because seeing Jessie had made him realize how desperately he missed his own daughter.
When I explained all that to Dede, she was sure it was lie, that I was not letting Lance come to the apartment because I didn't want him to fall for her. It got so bad that I finally asked Lance to call and explain, but that was a mistake. The utter humiliation of Lance knowing she harbored this flaky hangup with him infuriated her.
I woke up about six the last morning I lived there, and Dede was standing over my bed with a pair of kitchen scissors between her hands, extended in my direction. I could see she was completely smashed, shaking as if there were a motor in her chest, her face blotchy and her nose running as she stood there crying, toying with the idea of killing me. I jumped up and screamed at her. I slapped her and cursed her and took away the scissors while she crumpled in a heap in the corner of my room so that someone happening by might even have mistaken her for a pile of dirty laundry.
Now I listened to Nat's voice message six or seven times and then picked up the phone to call Rusty. I said I had to talk to him, even though I couldn't imagine what I would say. But crazy things happen in life all the time when people fall in love. I have a friend who got divorced and married her ex's brother. I heard about a lawyer in Manhattan, one of the senior partners in his firm, who at the age of fifty fell in love with a boy working in the mailroom and changed genders so the young man would have him, which actually worked out for a while. Love is supreme. It has its own quantum mechanics, its own rules. When love is involved, you can give only so much ground to propriety or even wisdom. If you love somebody badly enough, then realize that is who you are and try to have him.
That day at Dede's, while I packed, she went on crying and saying, 'I wasn't going to do it, I wasn't going to do it. I was pretending or something, but I wasn't going to do it.'
She said that a thousand times, and finally I was completely fed up. I zipped my last bag and slung it across my back. 'And that's what's wrong with you,' I answered.
Those were the last words I ever spoke to her.
CHAPTER 16
Rusty, September 2, 2008
Anna is already there when I arrive at the Dulcimer. She is nervous, fingering a highball glass full of bubbles, but beautiful. Her life in private practice has given her a sleeker look, a better coif and nicer clothes. I sit beside her on a tufted banquette in the
bar.
"Cut your hair?"
"Less to take care of. More time to work." She laughs. "Confessions of a high-priced slave."
"It's very becoming."
My compliment leaves her briefly silent until she mutters, "Thanks."
"What are you drinking?" I ask.
"Fizzy water. I have something I need to finish at work."
My heart sags: She is going back to work. I say nothing. She moves her purse so it's in the open space between us.
"Rusty, I don't know how to say this. So I think I just have to come out with it. I'll try to explain. But the point is that I've started seeing Nat. I mean, I haven't, but I'm going to. I'm going to see him today. And I don't know where it will go, but it's pretty serious already. It's very serious already."
"My Nat?" I actually blurt. For an instant I can feel nothing inside myself. And then what surges forth is rage. It storms out of my heart. "This is insane."
Looking at me, Anna's green eyes are welling.
"Rusty, I can't describe how hard I tried to avoid this."
"Oh, for Chrissake. What are you going to tell me about now? Fate? Destiny? You're a grown-up human being. You make choices."
"Rusty, I think I'm in love with him. And that he's in love with me."
"Oh, my God!"
She is crying by now as she holds the cool glass to her cheek.
"Look, Anna, I know you want to get back at me. I know I disappointed you. I know all is fair in love and war. I've heard every crappy expression. But this is impossible. And you have to stop."
"Oh, Rusty," she says, sobbing. "Rusty, I did everything the right way. I was so good. I wish you understood. I tried so hard to make this not happen."
I want to think. But the dimension of this is unimaginable. And I can feel my arms and hands shaking in fury.
"Does he know? About us?"
"Of course not. And he never will. Never. Rusty, I know this is crazy and difficult, but you know, I have to try, I really have to try. I don't know if I can handle this or you can handle this, but I have to try, I know I have to try."
I rear back in the chair. I am continuing to experience difficulty catching my breath.
"Do you know how often I've longed for you and stopped?" I ask her. "Made myself stop? And now, what? I'm supposed to watch you parade around my house? This is sick. How could you do this to me? To him? For God's sake."
"Rusty, you don't want me."
"Don't tell me what I want." I remain angry enough to slap her. "I know how this adds up, Anna. Don't preach sincerity to me. You're tightening the screws in the shittiest way imaginable. So what's my choice? Get rid of Barbara now, right now. Is that it? Get rid of her or you'll literally destroy my home?"
"Rusty, no. It's not about you. It's about him. That's the whole point of what I'm trying to tell you. It's about him. Rusty, Rusty-" Then she stops. "Rusty, I never felt like this about"-she stumbles-"about anyone. I mean, maybe I should be a case study in some psychiatric journal. Because I'm not sure if this would have happened without it. Without us. But it's different, Rusty. It really is. Rusty, please let us be."
